_Lov_. A man out at arms thou mean'st, Will.

_Bib_. Good, i'faith.

_Fran_. Aye, aye; you run questing up and down after your
gambols, and your jests, William; and never mind the main chance,
as they say: Pray get in your debts, and think upon your wife and
children.

_Lov_. Think upon the sack at Carey-house, with the Abricot
flavour, Will. Hang a wife; what is she, but a lawful kind of
manslayer? Every little hug in bed is a degree of murdering thee: and
for thy children, fear 'em not: thy part of 'em shall be taylors,
and they shall trust; and those, thy customers get for thee, shall
be gentlemen, and they shall be trusted by their brethren; and so thy
children shall live by one another.

_Bib_. Did you mark that, Frances? There was wit now; he call'd
me cuckold to my face, and yet for my heart I cannot be angry with
him. I perceive you love Frances, sir; and I love her the better for
your sake; speak truly, do you not like such a pretty brown kind of
woman?

_Lov_. I do i'faith, Will; your fair women have no substance in
'em, they shrink in the wetting.

_Fran_. Well, you may be undone if you will, husband: I hear
there are two or three actions already out against him: You may be the
last, if you think good.